


among the roses red

by gealbhan



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Ballad 39: Tam Lin, F/F, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Retellings, Marihilda Week, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21851608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealbhan/pseuds/gealbhan
Summary: “You shouldn’t be in the woods of Edmund,” said the woman again.“Hey, I own these woods,” said Hilda, rolling her eyes. “Or, well, my family does—House Goneril, you know—but that’s basically the same thing, right?”“The Beast of Edmund owns these woods.”Hilda laughed. “I don’t see any beast.”Hilda goes into the woods one day to find a rare flower—and winds up meeting the mysterious yet intriguing Marianne. Or: Tam Lin, but if Tam Lin was an awkward horse girl and Janet was an ignobly noble craftswoman.
Relationships: Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril
Comments: 3
Kudos: 88





	among the roses red

**Author's Note:**

> written for marihilda week day 3: flowers/horse ride/fairytales! my first thought to get them all in there was a batb au, but there's already an excellent one of those, so i went with tam lin instead.
> 
> re the body horror warning: there's not anything super major, just some weird fae stuff and some intense shapeshifting in the final scene (a bit more descriptive than the original tam lin by virtue of the format and my writing style, but again, nothing too gory). there's also a brief character injury in the third scene with a little bit of blood, but it's cleared up very quickly.
> 
> title from anais mitchell's "tam lin (child 39)," which i listened to very many times in the process of writing this. also, i do not care about canon geography in the slightest. enjoy!

The first rule was and always had been: Do not go into the woods of Edmund, for a beast lurked within.

So the stories went, the Beast of Edmund was a vile monster who would steal the virginity (as though that were a tangible thing someone could just take) and then life of any lady who ventured beyond the line of the trees. It would leave the survivors dazed and confused for days, wandering the forest until they too met their end. Thus, the woods bridging Goneril and Edmund territory were to be avoided at all costs.

Hilda Valentine Goneril figured most of these stories were complete and utter horseshit. She was also in need of a rare flower that, it was said, grew only in the harsh moonlight of the woods—all of the illustrations of it indicated it would be the perfect fit for the charm she was working on.

So, not heeding her brother’s explicit wishes, Hilda nabbed one of the horses from their stable in the dead of night and stole away into the forest.

As a child, she had seen the woods, of course—one could not instill proper fear in a child without showing them the object thereof, and so Hilda’s parents had brought her to the edge of the woods before telling her what dangers raged within. Hilda had always been strange, so this had done nothing but stoke her curiosity into the flame that burned today.

But since that day, she hadn’t visited the woods, only seen the trees from a distance. The forest was winding and confusing, uncharted due to all of the frightening bullshit surrounding it, and even more bewildering in darkness. She wasn’t sure what to expect; she knew the woods to be intimidating enough, not that it stopped her, but she wasn’t prepared for just how puzzling the roads were.

Soon she realized why this flower was so rare. It was hard to see at this hour, and even so, the trees all blended together after some time. Within minutes, Hilda found herself lost. Thorns of unease prickled at her bare arms, already chilled by the wind whispering around her, and her horse’s steps were growing slower as they seemed to travel in circles.

But she refused to turn around. The problem with all of the legendary maidens and others who’d disappeared in these treacherous woods was that they gave up hope too easily—Hilda, however, was spiteful and stubborn when she put her mind to it, and she deemed this a necessary enough task to exert herself for. She held tight to her steed’s reins and kept her head up high as they plunged further into the depths of the trees.

Just as her patience was draining, Hilda came upon a clearing. Moonlight streamed through the trees above, the dark night sky visible again at last, and the brilliant light illuminated the flowers growing in the center of it all, spread out in a ring-like pattern surrounded on all sides by clustered trees.

Hilda tugged on her horse’s reins, pulling them to a stop. This was it, she knew. Giddiness replaced terror-edged adrenaline as she hopped off of her horse and stepped toward the flowers.

With the glow of the moon, the petals almost cast a faint aura around themselves. It seemed a shame to pluck them, beautiful as they were, but a girl had needs. Hilda knelt to run her fingers across the crimson petals of one flower, the tone fading to a gentle gold at the tips—the shade of the sky almost turned the leaves and stem a deep azure. With a surreptitious glance around, Hilda gave the flower a good tug, pulling it up out of the ground, and let it fall across her palm. No sooner had she plucked this single flower than a rumbling voice spoke up from the shadows behind her.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Hilda jolted at the sound, free hand jumping to the hilt of her axe on reflex—but as soon as she had processed the voice, her face fell into a frown. It wasn’t the kind of voice Hilda would associate with a horrific beast. It was _nice_ ; gentle and sweet and a little wispy, if made sharper by the nature of the words themselves.

Hilda turned. What she found even further contrasted her vision of a looming monster among the shade. Rather than some twisted creature out of the pages of a children’s book warning against curiosity and, truly, everything in life that made it fun (Hilda had been made to read many of those as a child), the figure that stood before Hilda was a meek-looking woman draped in indigo robes so dark they were almost black. Her hair, a pale blue that stood out against her skin, was tied into an elegant knot at the back of her head. Loose wisps fell free around her pointed ears. The only thing beast-like was the pointed horn jutting from her head, but even that only seemed—not elegant, perhaps, but noble at the least, like a unicorn’s horn.

Despite her unassuming appearance, the woman held a certain gravity to her, a quiet power. If not the kind Hilda expected.

“You shouldn’t be in the woods of Edmund,” said the woman again.

“Hey, I own these woods,” said Hilda, rolling her eyes. “Or, well, my family does—House Goneril, you know—but that’s basically the same thing, right?”

“The Beast of Edmund owns these woods.”

Hilda laughed. “I don’t see any beast.”

The woman was silent, only staring back at Hilda with a vacant stare, some confusion seeping through. As her vision further adjusted to the darkness, aided by the moonlight, Hilda noticed that the nails of the woman’s bare feet and hands tapered off into long, curving claws.

“What, you’re the Beast of Edmund?” Hilda couldn’t help another laugh, her sharp giggle ringing out through the forest. “C’mon, what’s your real name?”

The question startled the woman so much that she answered, blinking (which, unless it was a trick of the light, she did sideways): “Um—Marianne.”

“Mar-i-anne,” said Hilda, feeling out the name. It was a fitting name, graceful as the woman appeared, and Hilda enjoyed saying it. “That doesn’t sound like a very beastly name. You don’t seem very beastly at all, in fact, save for that horn of yours, and it’s kind of cool.”

“Well—” Marianne seemed to not know what to say to that. She glanced up after a moment only to peer at Hilda’s horse, who—despite how skittish she usually was—hadn’t so much as jumped at the sight of a strange woman emerging from the trees. “Oh—who’s this?” asked Marianne, eyes wide with wonder.

“Uh. A horse?”

“I know that,” said Marianne, frowning. “Does it have a name?”

Hilda stared at her horse. Her horse seemed too focused on Marianne, who was making eye contact with her, to stare back. Hilda took the opportunity to pocket the flower in her hand (it wasn’t like it was going to grow back now) and shrugged.

“If she did, it would be something cute. Like Little Shit,” said Hilda affectionately. She patted her horse’s cheek, making her snort, and raised her eyebrows at Marianne, who now looked something like repulsed. “Or, I dunno—” she glanced at the flowers “—Rose?”

“Rose,” repeated Marianne. Her lips twitched into a fleeting smile, but it was gone so fast Hilda dismissed the idea that it had been there to begin with. She bowed—to the horse. If she hadn’t already been wondering, Hilda would have begun questioning who the _fuck_ this girl was. “It’s lovely to meet you, Rose. But you,” she added, turning back to Hilda, “shouldn’t be here. Let alone taking the flowers. These woods truly do belong to the Beast of Edmund.”

Hilda’s gut response was _I don’t see the Beast of Edmund’s name on it_ , but she bit her tongue. She already had what she’d come for—no need to antagonize Marianne at this point. So she batted her eyelashes and put on her most convincing smile.

“I’m so sorry,” she drawled out, tugging her horse’s reins. “I really didn’t know, since my family technically owns this land. But I can see why we wouldn’t want to upset the Beast of Edmund.” She winked, but Marianne didn’t seem impressed. Hilda deflated. “I’ve gotten this far in, though, and I don’t know how to get back out. Would you mind showing me back to the path?”

At first, she thought Marianne was going to refuse—but those odd eyes lingered on the horse. “All right,” she said finally, quiet, and Hilda sighed with relief.

They were silent as they walked, Hilda climbing back onto her horse, but that was okay—the woods were spooky enough as they were, echoing voices notwithstanding. Marianne brought Hilda only to the cusp of the woods before stepping back and bowing. “I can’t go any further.”

“That’s okay—I can find my way from here. Thanks for not killing me or—” Hilda rolled her eyes and injected a bit of sarcasm “—robbing me of my maidenhood or whatever.”

“Is… is that what people say?” asked Marianne—Hilda thought she might be upset (and hey, she would be too), but that expression was unreadable.

Hilda shrugged. “About the Beast of Edmund, yeah.”

“Right.” Marianne lowered her head, further casting her face into shadow. A shame, thought Hilda—it was a nice face, unremarkable as it had seemed at first glance. (She’d later blame these thoughts on the hour.) “Well, then, excuse me.”

And, with little more than a final pat to the snout of Hilda’s horse, she shrank back into the shadows.

“Bye,” said Hilda, but Marianne was already gone.

*

Rather than learning from this encounter, Hilda found that her curiosity could not be sated by such a short conversation with the supposed beastly guardian of the woods. She had at first thought she may have dreamed the whole encounter, but when she woke, the flower she’d procured was sitting on her desk. As planned, she turned it into a lovely charm. Her attention was fixed on the woods all the while, thinking of the bashful woman claiming to be a monster.

Thus, time and time again, she ventured back into the woods. Time and time again, Marianne (even less intimidating in the light of day, horn and all, though Hilda could sneak away less often then) found her and lectured her about going into the forest before leading her—and her horse when she brought one—back to so-called safety. Time and time again, Hilda’s escape—passed off as a simple walk, or nothing at all if she didn’t run into anyone—and subsequent return went unnoticed by her family. She would have felt guilty if it weren’t so fun.

Marianne spoke more and more each time, though more often than not it was only to Hilda’s horse or about the various creatures in the woods. Or more of the “Beast of Edmund” bullshit. It was nice, though, to hear her voice and thoughts.

Around the time of the fifth visit, Hilda realized something was unfair about her and Marianne’s arrangement. As Marianne led her out of the woods this time, she made sure to say before Marianne disappeared once more, “Hey, I just realized I never introduced myself to you. I’m Hilda Valentine Goneril.”

Instead of looking appeased by this revelation, Marianne stared in what seemed to be horror. “Names have power here,” she said, and then she lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper as she continued, “Hilda Valentine Goneril.”

The wind tore through the trees, too strong to be natural. A cold feeling seeped into Hilda’s bones—she wished she had worn a shawl.

As soon as the intimidating haze had lowered, it vanished again, absence accompanied by a meek look in Marianne’s dark, too-wide eyes. Hilda had realized last time that her pupils were slit. “I won’t, um, use yours against you. But there are creatures within these woods who would without hesitation. Please, Hilda, take caution.”

Hilda couldn’t say anything more, because just then they reached the edge of the forest, and Marianne slipped back without a word.

*

The next time, which was again to collect flowers instead of to test limits, Marianne’s warning was much more reserved.

“Um,” came a gentle voice from behind Hilda, who was crouching in a clearing she was pretty sure wasn’t the one she’d found on her first visit, followed by a short cough. “You shouldn’t pick the flowers.”

It was for naught, of course, since the flower was already in Hilda’s fist. Hilda considered the petals, bright red against her skin, and looked up. “What if I bring it back?”

Marianne stared at her. Today, she seemed less tired than usual—Hilda couldn’t tell from her current position, but it looked like the dark circles had faded somewhat. “What do you mean? You’ve already taken it.”

“Well, yeah,” said Hilda, twirling the stem. “But I’m taking it to make an accessory with it—you know, like a charm or pin or something. And I was going to sell it or keep it for myself, but to be honest, I have a lot of other materials I can do that sort of thing with. So I might as well make something to bring back for you, right? What sort of jewelry do you like?”

If possible, her explanation seemed to unnerve Marianne even more. “Why are you so kind to me?” she deflected. “You know what I am. You must know what I’m capable of.”

“I’ve heard stories,” said Hilda dismissively. “But I’ve talked to you, Marianne, and I know that you’re the Beast of Edmund in name only. I may not know you super well, but I know you well enough. So let me make you something, okay?”

As she made to stand, ready to further her cause, her hand slipped back toward the flowers, and before she knew what had happened, a sharp pain exploded in her wrist. Hilda yelped and shrank back down.

Marianne rushed forward, face flushed with panic and robes ablow, and took Hilda’s hand between her own. She pinched her eyes shut and murmured something that made Hilda’s hand glow, the bright white light almost blinding her. Healing magic, she registered—she recognized the basics from the Goneril medics. (She had spent a lot of time around the infirmary as a kid. …Okay, in recent years too.) Warmth spread throughout Hilda’s arm, and when she glanced back down, what she assumed had been a cut from one of the thorns had closed up; all that was left to show for the stinging injury was a trail of blood along Hilda’s forearm.

“See?” said Hilda, aware of how close she was to Marianne but not moving to separate them. “You’re a good enough person for me, Marianne.”

For a while, Marianne only stared at her, but Hilda hadn’t the decency with which to consider whether she’d overstepped. Then, to her surprise—

Marianne laughed. A quiet, fleeting, and nervous giggle, and one she looked rather ashamed of herself for letting loose at that, but a laugh nonetheless—and a beautiful one besides, soft and sweet, like the birdsong that carried through the trees around this time. Hilda stared back in wonder.

“All right. You may bring back—an accessory,” said Marianne with a dignified cough. “I have no preference for, um, ‘sorts of jewelry.’ So long as it doesn’t incorporate iron, I’m fine with anything—but please, don’t go out of your way or anything. Not for me.”

“No iron,” said Hilda, making note of it. “Okay! Don’t worry, I really like doing stuff like this. I’ll be back soon!”

Thus, Hilda went home with a flower in hand, and when she next went into the woods of Edmund, it was with a hair clip crafted from the flower, now preserved. Marianne blushed as Hilda tucked it behind her ear but thanked her profusely. Upon Hilda’s eighth visit and the next several following, Marianne was still wearing it.

After that, Hilda stopped counting.

*

It was a sunny afternoon, light streaming through the trees, when Hilda worked up the nerve to ask a simple yet loaded question: “Who are you, Marianne?”

Marianne only blinked back at her, as though the question were of particular inanity. “I am the Beast of Edmund.”

“Well—yeah,” said Hilda, frowning. “I know. You’ve told me.” Though she still didn’t quite believe it, she hadn’t personally witnessed any other forms of life here, so she either had to accept that there was no Beast of Edmund and Marianne was a weird girl living in the woods, that she’d somehow gone without provoking the Beast of Edmund despite all the time she’d spent in the woods, or that Marianne truly was the Beast of Edmund. “But, like, you had to be something before that, right? I doubt beasts just spring into existence fully formed—especially none as pretty as you.”

Marianne’s cheeks filled with pink, and she ducked her head to hide a smile. To Hilda’s delight, she’d been—while not quite reciprocating—reacting positively to Hilda’s subtle flirtations, which had begun growing bolder in turn. Then Marianne’s face cleared, and she lifted her chin. She looked every bit the noble that Hilda tried to pretend she herself wasn’t.

“Do you really want to know?” asked Marianne.

Hilda’s immediate response was an unequivocal _yes_ , but Marianne’s stony face and even cooler tone gave her pause. Still—she hadn’t come this far only to run away from the truth, however cruel it could be. “Yeah, if you want to tell me.”

One sideways blink, then two. Marianne took a deep breath. “My name really is Marianne,” she said, as though that had ever been a question—Hilda didn’t think Marianne capable of lying, another wrench in her willful ignorance of the whole beast thing. “I was born to a pair of nobles of small means, but they died when I was young. My adoptive father gave me to the fae.”

Marianne rubbed her neck, though aside from that, she didn’t show any signs of discomfort with the revelation. It was a simple fact, she seemed to be saying. Hilda’s stomach turned at the prospect. Sure, her family was pretty fucked up, but to think any of them would give her to the _fae_? Yeesh. They were nervous enough about some weird beast.

“I was but a child when I was offered up,” continued Marianne, and Hilda snapped back to attention. “He thought I was a changeling child, so in his eyes, he was returning me to my proper place. I—I don’t know if he was right.” For the first time, Marianne’s tone dipped into worry.

The story, unexpectedly, jars something in Hilda’s mind, a childhood memory dismissed as an overactive imagination: A young girl with long blue hair, Hilda’s playmate. Their territories were close, and while their families were not so much so, they’d gotten along well enough. She’d been shy and clumsy, but she’d loved horses, and she and Hilda had spent many a day perusing the Goneril stables. Hilda could see the girl’s features in Marianne—she doesn’t know how she could have missed it before.

Years ago, though, that girl had died— _returned to the_ _arms of the_ _Goddess_ , everyone wanted to phrase it as, like that would somehow lessen the blow of a dead kid. According to the girl’s father, she’d taken ill and passed away in her sleep. A sad tale, but not an uncommon one.

“Holy shit, I knew you. I knew your father. Margrave Edmund,” said Hilda, holding a hand over her mouth. “You’re his daughter.”

Dark clouds crossed Marianne’s face. “Adoptive,” she corrected, though without real ire—only resignation. “He is a very distant blood relative of mine, but he only took me in upon the passing of my birth parents. And—he gave me up, in the end.”

“Huh,” said Hilda. “That’s pretty fucked up.”

“It isn’t so bad here,” said Marianne, picking at the lace lining her skirt. “Among the fae. The Faerie King is kind, as is his troop—though many of them are, um, odd. When I first arrived here, I was frightened, and I—I didn’t like myself much. But the woods are my home now, and they will likely always be.”

“Still, that isn’t any sort of life.” Hilda frowned. If she had to spend her entire life in the woods, surrounded by the Goddess-damned fair folk a skeevy relative had sacrificed her to, she’d gouge her eyes out or something. Or at least pretend to. Going to that much actual effort seemed like too much.

Marianne folded her hands in her lap. “It isn’t,” she admitted. “But like I said, it isn’t so bad. Or—it wouldn’t be, if not for—” With a cough into her fist, Marianne looked away. “There is something coming up.”

Hesitation lingered in her gaze. Hilda leaned forward to rest her hand on Marianne’s shoulder and encourage, “Go on.”

Though she paused an instant longer, Marianne nodded and set her jaw. “Every fifteen years on the solstice, a sacrifice is made to the Goddess. I fear that this year, I will be chosen—I am the sole member of purely human origin among the fae, and the most recent among their numbers. And I—” Marianne swallowed. “Years ago, I would have gone without hesitation. But now… I like it here. I like the things that are in my life.” There was no misinterpreting the kind look she gave Hilda, which made Hilda’s heart leap in her chest. “So,” continued Marianne, glancing away, “I wish to break free. There is a way, but—you must be there by my side.”

Hilda took Marianne’s hand in hers. Marianne’s skin was soft yet cool, and the feeling was one Hilda wanted to experience again and again. “How can I help?”

Shock crossed Marianne’s face—and then she smiled, small but brilliant.

They talked long into the evening, and when at last Hilda returned home, dusk was breaking and the seeds of a plan had been sown in her mind.

*

The night was dark and the moon high amongst the stars as Hilda crept out, once again, to the woods of Edmund. Her heart pounded faster with every step she took. She feared that someone would catch her and haul her back to Goneril, leaving Marianne to her fate. This would be the first time, and she took no horse to avoid drawing further attention (an odd thing for her, since she often strove for the opposite), but still, she couldn’t hold off her nerves.

But Hilda’s journey was just as uneventful as all those in the past. She entered the forest unimpeded, and only then did she allow herself to exhale. Clutching her mantle with one hand—she wasn’t often one for outerwear, let alone as heavy as this, but the distinct chill in the air and Marianne’s plan made it necessary—Hilda hurried on.

The arrangement of the trees was as confusing as ever, seeming to shift by the very second, but it was still early enough that light glowed between the trees. Hilda followed the path until she had reached one of the clearings (it was always a different one) filled with flowers. Now, they were dead at her feet, petals wilted and dry. Though she herself had picked more than she could count—not even always for her work, either—Hilda’s heart panged at the sight.

Marching horses became audible—but more importantly, so too did a river. Through the trees, Hilda could see a bridge in the distance. She darted toward it, feet beating against the grass with as little noise as she could manage, and tucked herself away in the bushes just as a troop of eight faeries riding horseback emerged.

It didn’t take long for Hilda to spot Marianne among them. While Hilda’s eyes were drawn toward her already, seeking blue hair with a flower clip tucked behind one air and lithe limbs, the horse she rode was dark save for a diamond-shaped white mark on the forehead—just as Marianne had said. Marianne’s head was high, and she led her horse with steadfast assurance.

Leading the troop was the Faerie King. Though overshadowed by the Beast of Edmund, Hilda had heard stories of him as well, which paled in comparison. He was not the tallest of his companions nor the strongest, but that didn’t matter. The finest of silks were draped over him, golden fabric almost blending in with his horse’s tan coat but contrasting his own brown skin. A mask reminiscent of those Hilda had seen at masquerade balls hid most of his face. He carried himself with even more purpose than Marianne.

And, of course, upon his head sat a pair of antlers—not as grand as any elk’s, perhaps, nor as large, but mighty all the same.

None could doubt that the Faerie King had earned his title. Indeed, even Hilda felt a jolt of concern at the sight of him, not imposing but for the antlers but intimidating nonetheless.

The faerie troop came to a halt before the bridge. And as the Faerie King turned toward Marianne, whose head rose, Hilda sprung forth with a desperate shout of: _“Marianne!”_

Her cry rang out in the quiet night, and before any of the fae could react, she hurried to the side of Marianne’s horse and pulled her down.

Gasps abounded as Marianne fell into her arms, and as soon as Marianne had looked up, eyes teary with gratitude and relief, she shifted into something much more deserving of her beastly namesake.

Though she had been warned ahead of time, told to fear Marianne not, Hilda’s shock almost made her let go. She remembered herself just in time, though, and clung to the lioness now filling her arms.

A roar sounded against her chest. Hilda buried her face in the fur of the lioness’ head, mindful but uncaring of the teeth and fangs that could tear her apart without hesitation. She trusted Marianne—even in this wild form, she did not fear her for an instant. Though the lioness at first struggled, she relaxed before long, and—

Bones shifted and morphed beneath Hilda. Lioness became eagle, and Hilda held tighter still to the wings and talons that fought against her grasp. Feathers fluttered into her mouth. A beak sliced at her shoulder. Hilda resisted the gut urge to reel back—she could do this, and Marianne could do this. The eagle let loose a raw cry, the same visceral emotion in it as the motions of the lioness, and Hilda could have wept for her.

But as soon as the eagle stilled, Marianne’s shape changed again, this time into a deer much taller than Hilda even without the antlers of the Faerie King. Calmer than the angry lioness, less brazen than the fierce eagle, as intelligent as them both. Hilda was still undeterred and wrapped her arms around the doe’s neck. The deer shook in her grasp, hooves scuffing at the grass—it was fear rather than aggression, Hilda knew, that compelled Marianne to flee.

But the ritual wasn’t over yet. If Marianne broke free now, never again would she be so. And so Hilda held her tight and held her fast, exerting her rarely-acknowledged strength to keep Marianne still.

And once again Marianne changed, and Hilda was thankful for her quick reflexes and Goneril might as she flung the burning iron that was once Marianne into the nearby well, dousing her in the water within.

The air stood still. The faerie troop was silent, all eyes on Hilda and the well, where a cloud of steam was unleashed from the heat and intensity of Marianne’s landing. Hilda clutched her mantle around herself. Questions bubbled inside her mind: Had it worked? Was Marianne all right?

Finally, after what seemed like days, another form emerged from the well: The woman Hilda had come to care for so deeply, her blue hair dark and damp with the water dripping, too, off of her bare skin.

Hilda ran to her. She undid her warm mantle and wrapped it around Marianne’s nude form, bringing her hands up to Marianne’s cold face. Marianne’s face broke into a relieved smile as soon as Hilda’s palms pressed against her skin. Overjoyed tears ran down her face, and it was like second nature for Hilda to wipe them away with her thumbs.

It, too, was natural to lean forth and press her lips to Marianne’s. Marianne gasped but soon returned the kiss in full force, her own hands coming up to grasp at Hilda’s wrists, reciprocating the simultaneous strength and tenderness with which Hilda had held her as she changed in her arms.

As she did, Hilda noticed something: Marianne’s hands were warm. Not as much so as Hilda’s, but much more so than they had been beforehand—a much more human temperature, and one that had to be more comfortable for Marianne too.

Hilda broke away, her breath visible in the cool air. Her head bumped against Marianne’s horn, still there but much smaller (albeit not enough so that it kept Hilda from hitting it, it seemed). Before Hilda could lean back in to pepper kisses all over Marianne’s face and sweep her into her arms, applause broke out.

She turned only to realize it was from the very Faerie King, who had climbed off of his horse and now stood before them. A smile stretched out from beneath his mask.

“What a performance, Hilda Valentine Goneril,” he said, and though he spoke the name with clear weight, it didn’t affect Hilda the same way it had when Marianne had said it what seemed like eons ago. Whispers broke out among the other fae. “Why, you outsmarted even me.” The Faerie King flipped back the mask to reveal a set of eyes twinkling with warmth. “Not an easy thing to do, by any means. Congratulations!”

“You… aren’t going to stop us?” was all Hilda could bring herself to say, stunned into rare silence.

“Surely not,” said the Faerie King, aghast. “I’ve been wanting to get rid of this tradition for ages. I daresay the Goddess won’t starve.”

Marianne bowed, graceful even wearing only Hilda’s mantle, which was a bit too small for her (though it covered everything important, at least). “Thank you, Claude,” she said, snapping Hilda out of her shock. She’d expected the Faerie King to have a more ethereal name than _Claude_ , but it did suit him. “Words can’t express my gratitude.”

Claude laughed. “Repay me by living a happy life, Marianne, with this woman so devoted to you—a devotion which I commend you on, by the way,” he added with an aside glance to Hilda.

One of the other fae riders slid down from his white steed. He wasn’t as noticeably inhuman as Marianne or Claude, but roses grew along his skin and two pairs of stubby goat-like horns sat upon his head. “Claude, are you certain about this? It is hardly orthodox—”

“I am not an orthodox man, Lorenz,” said Claude, breezy. The other faerie—Lorenz—fell silent, albeit with a grimace visible beneath his own mask. Satisfied, Claude turned to face the rest of his troop and raised his voice. “If anyone else wants to object, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

The woods were silent save for the minute shuffling of the horses, whose fae nature apparently did not make them privy to the ins and outs of social cues.

“You make it sound like we’re getting married,” said Hilda.

Claude turned back toward her and Marianne with a raised eyebrow. “Would you like to?”

“…Sorry?”

“Well,” said Claude, a smile of mischief stretching across his face as he indicated a small green-haired woman atop another horse, “there is one among our number who is experienced in arranging such things—”

“ _Claude,”_ interrupted Marianne, her face as pink as Hilda’s hair. “I—I think it’s far too soon to talk of things like marriage.”

“Yeah, we’re not gonna get married tonight,” said Hilda, though the thought sent heat to her neck.

“All right, all right.” Claude’s antlers seemed to glow as he climbed back onto his horse and patted it behind the ears. “Then I’ll just wish you both the best. Hilda, I would tell you not to go into the woods again lest you be taken by the fae, but, well, if you hadn’t in the first place, we wouldn’t be here, would we?”

“My father always says ‘curiosity killed the cat,’” said Hilda. “But _I_ like to say ‘satisfaction brought it back.’”

Marianne chuckled, and Claude’s grin only grew. He knocked his mask back down to cover it. “A woman after my own heart. Now, be well, the two of you—when you turn around, the exit of the woods will be before you. Farewell!”

He gestured for Lorenz to get back upon his own horse, which he did with a nod in Hilda and Marianne’s direction, and while Hilda waved somewhat numbly, the troop of faeries disappeared back into the woods. Soon they were swallowed back up, though whether by the trees, blackness, or descending fog Hilda couldn’t say.

One horse remained, however—Marianne’s, and she broke free from Hilda to rush to it, murmuring a quick apology. Hilda took the opportunity to turn, finding behind her—as promised—an open grove of trees.

“I will never understand this place,” she muttered.

Marianne stepped up beside her, one hand tugging her horse along beside her—another addition to the Goneril stables wouldn’t hurt anything, Hilda figured. There was still something wild about her, sharp teeth and that horn as present as ever, but Marianne looked… peaceful. Gentler than ever. _Happy,_ Hilda thought with a swell in her chest.

Without a word, Hilda reached for her hand. Marianne took it without hesitation. No longer needing guidance, they stepped in unison toward the edge of the woods, and Marianne sucked in a breath when she crossed the threshold she’d previously had to turn around at. Her grip on Hilda’s hand tightened.

And, together, they went home.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! if you have time to spare, comments & kudos are always appreciated <3
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/withlittlequill) | [tumblr](http://infernallegaycy.tumblr.com)


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